at him as if he knew him although Rath knew this wasn’t the case. It was how they had looked at him the first time too. It was just part of the service. Everyone should feel like a regular.
‘An Americano please,’ Rath said, leaning on the bar. Although the music went straight to his hips, he suddenly felt very tired. No wonder. He had been on the go since early morning.
The man placed a glass on the counter. Rath dropped a one-mark coin into his hands and pulled out the photo. The barman seemed bored. The smile had disappeared and he shrugged his shoulders. Discretion was part of the service here too.
Although he had hoped to avoid doing it in this bar, Rath placed his ID next to the photo. ‘Have you really never seen this man?’
Another shrug of the shoulders. ‘So many things happen here every day…’
‘He’s Russian,’ Rath discreetly placed another mark on the counter.
The barman made the mark disappear even more discreetly under the palm of his hand and leaned in closer.
‘The Russians usually keep to themselves,’ he whispered. ‘You should ask them.’ He gestured in their direction with his eyes. ‘Try your luck in the corner back there, but don’t say you heard it from me.’
Rath looked round. At the other end of the room ten men were sitting at two adjacent tables. There wasn’t a single woman amongst them. Rath moved slowly across the floor, one hand holding his glass, the other in his trouser pocket. The men took no notice of him whatsoever, as they were engaged in what was obviously a stimulating discussion. They were speaking Russian.
‘A gathering of the displaced?’ Rath asked. The conversation ceased immediately.
‘Please excuse this interruption,’ he said, displaying the metal badge on his jacket. ‘CID. If you would be so kind as to provide some information about one of your countrymen.’
Rath removed the photo from his jacket and held it right under the nose of a blond youth. ‘Do you know this man? Alexej Ivanovitsch Kardakov.’
The young man gazed at him through big blue eyes as if he hadn’t understood a word.
Two men from the adjacent table stood up. One man’s face was disfigured by a long scar across his cheek. It wasn’t a duelling scar, more like a serious wound. He cast an eye over the large-size photo.
‘No-one here knows this man,’ said Scar Face.
Rath knew the man was lying before he had finished his sentence.
‘Are you sure?’ Rath gestured towards the blond. ‘Your friend here didn’t understand my question. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to translate?’
‘Not necessary. He understood you.’ The Russian puffed himself up. Rath could see his muscles flexing under the fabric of his dark suit. They wanted to do more than flex. ‘Now might I ask you to leave us in peace? We Russians live amongst ourselves. We regulate our own affairs. We don’t like it when Germans interfere in our business.’
‘I’ll weigh in wherever I please,’ Rath replied provocatively.
The Russian’s face turned red, his scar a shade of violet. ‘You’re lucky you’re a police officer,’ he said. ‘We respect the agencies of law enforcement. Otherwise you’d be in trouble.’ He paused theatrically. ‘Big trouble. No-one talks to me like that. I have a good memory for faces. Just pray that you don’t run into me off duty.’
‘I’m never off duty.’
‘A good cop doesn’t drink on the job,’ the Russian said and pointed towards the glass in Rath’s hand.
‘Then maybe I’m a bad cop,’ Rath said. As laughable as this alpha male posturing was, he had no intention of showing this muscled ape the white feather.
The Russian became friendlier. He cast his eye over the photograph, took it from Rath’s hand and feigned interest.
‘We’d like to help you but, as I’ve already said, none of us have seen this man.’
‘I’d like to ask your friends that myself.’ Rath took an Overstolz from the packet.
‘They’d all say the same
‘An Americano please,’ Rath said, leaning on the bar. Although the music went straight to his hips, he suddenly felt very tired. No wonder. He had been on the go since early morning.
The man placed a glass on the counter. Rath dropped a one-mark coin into his hands and pulled out the photo. The barman seemed bored. The smile had disappeared and he shrugged his shoulders. Discretion was part of the service here too.
Although he had hoped to avoid doing it in this bar, Rath placed his ID next to the photo. ‘Have you really never seen this man?’
Another shrug of the shoulders. ‘So many things happen here every day…’
‘He’s Russian,’ Rath discreetly placed another mark on the counter.
The barman made the mark disappear even more discreetly under the palm of his hand and leaned in closer.
‘The Russians usually keep to themselves,’ he whispered. ‘You should ask them.’ He gestured in their direction with his eyes. ‘Try your luck in the corner back there, but don’t say you heard it from me.’
Rath looked round. At the other end of the room ten men were sitting at two adjacent tables. There wasn’t a single woman amongst them. Rath moved slowly across the floor, one hand holding his glass, the other in his trouser pocket. The men took no notice of him whatsoever, as they were engaged in what was obviously a stimulating discussion. They were speaking Russian.
‘A gathering of the displaced?’ Rath asked. The conversation ceased immediately.
‘Please excuse this interruption,’ he said, displaying the metal badge on his jacket. ‘CID. If you would be so kind as to provide some information about one of your countrymen.’
Rath removed the photo from his jacket and held it right under the nose of a blond youth. ‘Do you know this man? Alexej Ivanovitsch Kardakov.’
The young man gazed at him through big blue eyes as if he hadn’t understood a word.
Two men from the adjacent table stood up. One man’s face was disfigured by a long scar across his cheek. It wasn’t a duelling scar, more like a serious wound. He cast an eye over the large-size photo.
‘No-one here knows this man,’ said Scar Face.
Rath knew the man was lying before he had finished his sentence.
‘Are you sure?’ Rath gestured towards the blond. ‘Your friend here didn’t understand my question. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to translate?’
‘Not necessary. He understood you.’ The Russian puffed himself up. Rath could see his muscles flexing under the fabric of his dark suit. They wanted to do more than flex. ‘Now might I ask you to leave us in peace? We Russians live amongst ourselves. We regulate our own affairs. We don’t like it when Germans interfere in our business.’
‘I’ll weigh in wherever I please,’ Rath replied provocatively.
The Russian’s face turned red, his scar a shade of violet. ‘You’re lucky you’re a police officer,’ he said. ‘We respect the agencies of law enforcement. Otherwise you’d be in trouble.’ He paused theatrically. ‘Big trouble. No-one talks to me like that. I have a good memory for faces. Just pray that you don’t run into me off duty.’
‘I’m never off duty.’
‘A good cop doesn’t drink on the job,’ the Russian said and pointed towards the glass in Rath’s hand.
‘Then maybe I’m a bad cop,’ Rath said. As laughable as this alpha male posturing was, he had no intention of showing this muscled ape the white feather.
The Russian became friendlier. He cast his eye over the photograph, took it from Rath’s hand and feigned interest.
‘We’d like to help you but, as I’ve already said, none of us have seen this man.’
‘I’d like to ask your friends that myself.’ Rath took an Overstolz from the packet.
‘They’d all say the same
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